Behind Schedule
by murderofonerose
Summary: What if Charles hadn't been able to get there in time to keep the renegotiated contract from being signed? Some N/C, but if you don't like slash you can still read part one.
1. Part One

**Pairing****:** Charles  
**Words:** 276  
**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

Well, he doesn't have a driver's license anymore because he's _dead_. And he doesn't have enough money for a cab because he's _dead_; the hospital bills alone probably drained his emergency funds. So... Yeah, bus.

* * *

**Part One  
**

* * *

The man sitting at the back of the bus was starting to make the driver nervous. It wasn't that he seemed angry they were behind schedule – though he did keep checking his watch – but that was actually the creepy part. His face was completely impassive. But his hands were gripping the headrest of the seat in front of him in an increasingly white-knuckled stranglehold.

* * *

A few passengers got off at the third to last stop, and then the bus was empty. Almost. All except for that one man in a black leather jacket, sitting in the back. The bus driver swallowed nervously, shifting in her seat. She couldn't keep an eye on him as she pulled away from the stop and back into traffic – and then suddenly he was _right there_.

"It is of the utmost importance," Charles said calmly, "that you drive faster. I have an appointment to keep."

* * *

Charles heard over the radio (which he had insisted be turned on, once there were no other passengers there to be bothered by it) that the concert had been powered down. He glanced over at the bus driver with a raised eyebrow; she took the hint quickly and floored the gas pedal.

* * *

As soon as the bus pulled back up, the lights came back on. A brief look of – self-reproach? pain? – crossed Charles' face. Then he looked over at the bus driver, who stared back with rapidly widening eyes.

"Well," he said. "You know what that means."

He did her the courtesy of snapping her neck quickly. If he was indeed too late, then there was no need to attract anyone's attention just yet after all.


	2. Part Two

**Pairing****:** Charles**  
****Warning:** Some reference to Nathan/Charles  
**Words:** 335  
**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

Charles _will_ make up for putting them through this.

* * *

**Part Two  
**

* * *

They must have signed it. _Of course they did_, Charles berated himself, _I was late_. Even if they had realized just how bad an idea it was, they had little leverage at the moment and none of the finesse to use it properly.

As much as he hated this, Charles needed to lie low for a while longer. Regroup. Get some sort of part time job where he wouldn't be recognized (which immediately disqualified any options in business, law, or music) to supplement what was left of his bribe money fund.

Most importantly, he needed to read that contract.

* * *

Charles was almost amused by how much a smile, messy hair, contacts, and a fake social security number could do to disguise a person.

Almost. He was too busy hating working at Dimmu Burger with the burning passion of exactly one hundred fiery suns. And he'd thought his _last_ job had been dealing with idiots.

* * *

He thought of his boys every day. Every hour.

Soon, though, he would be with them again. And Nathan… Charles missed him most of all. He tried not to think about the night before the attack often, but he dreamed about it sometimes.

_

* * *

Sheets damp, pushed off. Didn't need them to stay warm, though, not with Nathan curled around him like an impossibly huge, tired housecat. Sleeping lion, maybe. Was he asleep? Charles pressed his face into the singer's hair, to no reaction. Yes. He ran his hand gently over Nathan's belly, tracing his liver transplant scar._

He'd let himself lay there drowsily for a half an hour, then crawled reluctantly out of the huge bed to go over security for that night again. Six thirty wasn't _too_ late to start his day.

Ten hours later, he'd discovered Nathan (and most of the rest of the band) trying to suck his own dick.

Eight hours after that, Charles had "died."

* * *

Charles was still on medication which had the side effect of not dreaming very often. He was mostly grateful for that.


	3. Part Three

**Characters****:** Charles**  
Words:** 270  
**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

Sleeper hold. He takes such care to not kill anyone, and then the building just, you know, goes and blows itself up. Good one, Charlie.

* * *

**Part Three  
**

* * *

Damien Cornickelson had Dethklok by the balls, and Charles took that personally.

It had taken extensive recon work, a time off request form, and the theft of the right size security guard uniform – but now he had the original copy of the new contract in his hands. And he was holding a lighter to the bottom corner of it. Nathan's distinctive signature was the last one to burn up.

_I will fix this_, Charles promised silently. _I will make up for putting you boys through this._

* * *

A security guard on his rounds practically tripped over one of his coworkers before he realized there was a body there. "Shit," he muttered, crouching down to check that the guy was breathing, feeling kind of bad that he'd practically kicked him in the face. It was this damn nighttime lighting that the execs insisted on for ambiance after the "real employees" went home.

Okay, he couldn't find a pulse but that was because he was crap at finding pulses. But he could feel the guy's breath on his hand, so he was still alive.

He looked around. Right outside the room where the execs filed all the really important documents—

An arm wrapped around his neck from behind, cutting off his air.

* * *

Charles dropped the limp body next o the other one and calmly made his way out. No one else got in his way or questioned his presence.

He was outside and halfway down the block by the time the fuses on his homemade explosives ran out. There were probably photocopies outside of the building, but this was good enough for now.


End file.
